<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Lessons by skruffie</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25044919">Lessons</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/skruffie/pseuds/skruffie'>skruffie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallen London | Echo Bazaar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:07:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25044919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/skruffie/pseuds/skruffie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from Vincent's life on the surface, before London. Author's notes at the end.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lessons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Cambridge, Cambridgeshire. 1870</em>
</p><p>The hallway stretches on into bleak silence. Doorways are tall, gaping rectangles leading into locked rooms–all off-grounds to tiny hands. The small <em>pad-pad-pad </em>of leather shoes on the wood floors is the only sound as he runs down to the end of the hall, coming to a slow stop before the final door. Just to the side, giving way to a view of the gardens below, is a giant window, and he takes a moment to press his face to the glass. No visitors outside. The grey clouds are rolling in, promising cold and rain. Finally, he turns to the door and reaches up, grasping the handle with both hands.</p><p>“Papa?” He calls out into the dim. Just beyond the shadows, the vague shapes of a bed and a figure. The door shines a sliver of light on the detritus of his father’s bedroom floor: shiny glass bottles lined up right next to the bed, a bundle of socks here and there, dust. When he opens the door wider, the figure stirs, barely lifting a head.</p><p>“What is it, Vincent?” The shadow’s voice asks, gravel in it’s inflection.</p><p>“Papa, it’s suppertime,” The boy says.</p><p>At the opposite end of the hall, a grandfather clock diligently keeps time. The shadow sighs, putting it’s head back down on the pillow for a long moment. Vincent wavers, both hands clasped on the doorknob as he idly pushes it back and forth, waiting for an answer. His eyes are wide, patiently staring at the lump of what could be the shadow’s shoulder.</p><p>“Alright, son. I’ll be there.” The voice finally rumbles.</p><p>Another uncomfortable silence, and finally a small “<em>see you</em>” before the boy closes the door. Not wasting time, he darts back down the hallway. “He’s coming down!” The boy shouts as he gets farther and farther from the shadow’s room. “He’s coming down!”</p><p><br/>–</p><p>
  <br/>
  <em>1881</em>
</p><p><br/>A wordless communication passes between the two: a tilt of the head, upward glances to the sky, careful placement in the grass underfoot. The breeze cuts through the tops of the trees and a flock of pheasants take to the sky, their feather bodies casting dots on the clouds above. Down below, Vincent takes a deep breath and aims. His arms hold the rifle steady, not a tremble or waver to betray his shot. A moment; the wind shifts, and the bullet fires– piercing through the crisp air and into the body of the pheasant, sending it cascading down into the field.</p><p>“Got him,” He says. Beside him, his father Oswin nods encouragingly.</p><p>“That was a good shot,” He offers, and Vincent can’t help the satisfied grin on his face. A hound takes off through the grasses between them, disappearing into the thick of it. The rest of the flock was nearly long gone, escaping into the air.</p><p>Oswin shivers once and pulls his coat tighter about his waist, and then stuffs his hands down into his pockets. “Once she comes back with it, we should head home.” He says, listening for the dog.</p><p>“So soon? We’ve barely just begun.” Vincent looks at the basket they’ve brought, keeping their already-caught game safe and neat.</p><p>“The sooner we get back, the sooner we have fresh pheasant for supper. Your sister has been perfecting the recipe.”</p><p>“Which one, Sophia? She spends so much time back with us,” Vincent remarks, dislodging the remaining bullets from the rifle. “Where is her husband, anyway? He ought to be joining–”</p><p>“That’s none of your concern, and you know that.” Oswin snaps.</p><p>Vincent doesn’t look at him. He rolls the bullets between his thumb and forefinger, watching as the hound trots back with the bird in her maw. He doesn’t look at his father’s eyes–similar in color to how the sky is in winter, nor the shake in Oswin’s hands as he stuffs them into coat pockets. Vincent adjusts his gloves, gives his nose a brisk wipe with the back of his hand, and whistles for the dog to come closer. “Let’s go, then.” He says.</p><p>It starts just a couple minutes into their walk back home.</p><p>“Sophia is a grown woman,” Oswin says, keeping his shuffle steady. Vincent is a step or two behind, watching the wind blow through his father’s hair. “With you, first it was about how she can’t seem to settle with anyone good, then it was that he’s never home, and now it’s that she’s never home–”</p><p>“She isn’t.”</p><p>“Don’t interrupt,” Oswin says sharply. “Your sister has a good head on her shoulders. Takes after her mother that way.” Vincent’s mouth presses into a thin line, but Oswin doesn’t notice. “A good mind, and a good heart. Family-focused. She isn’t the type to run off and forget where she came from.”</p><p>Vincent waits until he’s certain Oswin is done speaking. “But if she’s having troubles, wouldn’t she want to confide in her family? You know… support?” Oswin shakes his head, his frown deep and disappointed.</p><p>“It’s something you’ll understand when you’re a bit older, son.” He says. “Everything changes when you’re married, when you’ve completely turned your life over to someone else. You will always love your family, but there are some things that can only be worked out between spouses. Family will love and support you in the right time, but it’s not the sibling’s business to fix the problems of his sister’s marital problems. That’s on her.”</p><p>As the house comes into view, the hound starts walking faster, soon breaking into a run. The pheasant’s head bobs lifelessly next to the dog’s mouth, and Vincent watches it with mute satisfaction. He wonders if he ought to be disturbed instead, captured by it’s sightless gaze, the bird’s final thought of flight struck down so the Abrams could have a treat tonight.</p><p>Instead, he thinks it’s at least one good thing that he’s done this day. He shifts, adjusting his hold on their basket and feels the weight of the other pheasants tumble inside.</p><p>“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Oswin says, and then is interrupted by a brief coughing fit. As the two men cross the threshold, he finally catches his breath and continues. “A dance is coming up.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>“It might be a fun event for you to attend and meet new people.” Oswin says. “In a couple weeks, right here in Cambridge. What do you say?”</p><p>VIncent thinks of the city, of it’s town markets full to bursting with crops each day, and the bustle of daily life. The young academics with their robes, sweeping through the halls of the University he himself is planning to attend someday, studying… what? The farther city’s dangerous revolutionaries, coming up from underground to scope out the landscape and how the Surface cities are faring without it’s main central force. It didn’t take long for the rails to be up and running again, his father had said, but would being so deep into the city be safe? A promenade feels so twee; a desperate attempt to push his son into the arms of some young lady and let time do the dance between them, pushing them on to a happy life, a happy adulthood, far away from the musty corners of childhood homes and the disappointed voices–</p><p>“Vincent?” Oswin’s voice broke his reverie.</p><p>“It would be a delight.” Vincent finally replies.</p><p>His mind is stuck between two places: the tall walls of the University, promising both a rich history and a shining future, and the sight of the pheasant dead in the dog’s mouth. A living thing, thinking nothing except air and and breath and sky.</p><p>Sky, and then that single bullet.</p><p>Oswin’s hands are still shaking in his pockets.</p><p>–</p><p>“She’s adequate in church choir,” Clarence says, watching the young couple as he took a sip of his drink. His wife, Henrietta, was off to the side chatting with a pleasant-faced woman. Oswin lifts his chin up a bit, scrutinizing the dance with a calculating glare.</p><p>“Devout, you’d say?”</p><p>“Very.” Clarence replies. “It took a bit of stern discipline in her earlier years. That, and watching her older brother in his studies.” He beams. “Theology. His wife is also in the choir. Cassandra enjoys it as a hobby, but I believe it’s writing that is her main focus and passion lately.”</p><p>Oswin’s smile is small. “It sounds as if you raised two lovely children.”</p><p>The young couple finally began their dance. Vincent’s steps were uncertain, and he laughs with a boyish self-consciousness. Cassandra’s face is flushed, a sort of frightened grin on her face flickering as she tried to keep up with the pace of the waltz. The rest of the young couples whirl around in time, and soon Vincent and Cassandra are swept up in the crowd. Both sets of parents keep a careful eye, even when the music ends. A questioning look is on Vincent’s face, and he is too far away for them to hear what he asks, but moments later he leaves Cassandra’s side and heads for the refreshment table. In his absence, Cassandra glances in her mother’s direction and gives an excited grin.</p><p>Vincent returns with two small glasses of water, trying to enjoy the break in the song for as much as he could before she would move on to the next dance. The next partner. Her gaze darts away from his for a moment as she sips the water, steps just a hair’s width closer to his arm as she watches the crowd disperse to find their next partners. Lighting-quick, she gets up to her tiptoes and whispers something in his ear, for just a second, and finally leaves his side.</p><p>Oswin blinks slowly. “They already seem quite taken with each other after one dance.”</p><p>Clarence dips his head in a quick nod. “He’s a polite lad, your boy. What is it you said he wanted to study?”</p><p>Oswin looks down to adjust his gloves. “He’s indecisive. Part of him wants to go into medicine, the other part wants business. He seems to enjoy our outings together with our local hunting party, but it’s not his style. Once he figures it out, however, no doubt he’s persistent enough to follow through on it and not look back.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Clarence asks.</p><p>Oswin makes an agreeable noise. “When his mind is made up on what he wants, he’ll try to hold onto it as much as he can.” A pause, and he continues.</p><p>“I suppose he got that quality from me.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A little story from 2016, pre-Fallen London setting actually since this is scattered across Vincent's childhood and young adulthood. It was kind of a struggle to look past what I already knew about him from the beginning (turning out to be an abusive husband), but I always had a feeling that he had a bleak childhood. It doesn't excuse what he does later--I just find it fascinating to really dig into the complexities of antagonists.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>